Where the Shadows Lie (Fire and Ice)

had spent sleepless nights in the guest room of his brother’s house in Medford. That was why the smell had gotten to him: for the first time in a long time the smell of death had become personal.
    It could have been him splayed out on the floor of that apartment. Or Colby.
    It was the hottest day of the year so far, which had, of course, made the smell worse, and Magnus was sweating in his suit jacket. He felt a touch on his elbow.
    It was a guy of about fifty, Latin, bald, short and overweight, unshaven. He was wearing a large blue shirt which hung out over jeans.
    ‘Detective?’
    Magnus stopped. ‘Yeah?’
    ‘I think I saw something. The night the girl was stabbed.’ The man’s voice was gruff, urgent.
    Magnus was tempted to tell the guy to beat it. They had a witness who had seen the boyfriend come, another who had seen him leave six hours later, three who had heard a loud argument, one who had heard a scream. But you could never have enough witnesses. Another statement to type up when he got back to the station.
    Magnus sighed as he reached for his notebook. There were still several hours to go before he could go home and take the run and shower he needed to get the smell out of his system. If he wasn’t too exhausted for a run by then.
    The man looked nervously up and down the street. ‘Not here, I don’t want nobody to see us talking.’
    Magnus was about to protest – the victim’s boyfriend was a cook at the Boston Medical Center, hardly someone to be scared of – but then he shrugged and followed the man as he hurried down a small side street, between a dilapidated grey clapboard house and a small red-brick apartment building. Little more than an alley, with some kind of construction site with a high wire fence at the end. A heavily tattooed kid with a yellow T-shirt stood at the street corner. He smoked a cigarette, his back to Magnus.
    As they entered the alleyway, the bald guy seemed to speed up. Magnus lengthened his stride. He was about to yell to the guy to slow down, when he stopped himself.
    Magnus had been asleep. Now he was awake.
    Among the forest of tattoos on the kid’s arms, Magnus had noticed a small dot above one elbow, and a pattern of five dots above the other. One five, fifteen, the tattoo of the Cobra-15 gang. They didn’t operate in Roxbury. This kid was way outside of his territory, by at least three miles, maybe four. But the Cobra-15 were customers of Soto’s operation, local distribution agents. The guys in the Jeep in the North End had been working for Soto, Magnus was sure.
    Magnus’s instinct was to straighten up and turn, but he forced himself not to break his stride and alert the kid. Think. Think fast.
    He could hear footsteps behind him. Gun or knife? The sound of a gun would be risky this close to the crime scene – there were still one or two cops milling around. But the kid knew Magnus was armed and no one brings a knife to a gunfight. Which meant gun. Which meant the kid was probably pulling it out of the waistband of his pants right then.
    Magnus dived to the left, grabbed a garbage can and threw it to the ground. As he hit the ground he rolled once, reached for his gun and pointed it towards the kid, who was raising his own weapon. Magnus’s finger curled around the trigger, and then his training kicked in. He hesitated. The rule was clear: don’t fire if there is a chance of hitting a civilian.
    In the mouth of the alleyway stood a young woman, grocery bags in both arms, staring at Magnus, her mouth open. She was wide, real wide, and directly behind the kid in the yellow T-shirt in Magnus’s line of fire.
    The hesitation gave the kid time to raise his own gun. Magnus was looking straight down the barrel. A stand off.
    ‘Police! Drop your weapon!’ Magnus shouted, even though he knew the kid wouldn’t.
    What would happen next? If the kid fired first, he might miss Magnus, and then Magnus could get away his own shot. Although he was six foot four and weighed over two hundred pounds, Magnus was lying prone on the street, partially hidden by the dislodged trash can, a smallish target for a panicked kid.
    Perhaps the kid would back off. If only the woman would move. She was still rooted to the spot, her mouth open, trying to scream.
    Then Magnus saw the kid’s eyes flick upwards and behind Magnus. The bald guy.
    The kid wouldn’t have taken his eyes off Magnus’s gun if the bald guy was holding back. He would only risk that if the bald guy was